


Call Me Joker

by JynErsoinNYC



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Eating Disorders, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Joker transformation, Light BDSM, Mental Health Issues, Plot, Psychological Drama, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, romantic relationship with Arthur, then twisted/romantic relationship with Joker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2020-12-17 14:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21055757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JynErsoinNYC/pseuds/JynErsoinNYC
Summary: It wasn't a great time to be involved with a clown.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Is 'sugariest' a word? Nevermind i'm using it 
> 
> :)

Joey stuffed a heaping spoon of Lucky Charms into his mouth. “Mom, I want a clown at my birthday.”

Across the kitchen table, you sighed into your mug.

Not a _fucking_ clown – not now, with all these recent protests and murders.

You reached over and shifted the orange juice about to be knocked onto the floor. “Joey, baby, I thought you wanted a magician.”

Joey shook his blonde head. “No, I changed my mind. I really want a clown.”

You briefly wondered if the magician you had been planning to hire after breakfast could pass as a clown – maybe you could pay him extra to stick on a wig – when your son began listing all the _obvious_ differences between magicians and clowns, and why clowns were better, and how his new friends would be disappointed if there wasn’t a clown at his birthday party because he had told them at school yesterday that there would be.

Joey’s eighth birthday was tomorrow, and you were running out of time.

“Okay baby, I’ll find you a clown, if…”

Joey leaned over his bowl.

“…you go and tidy your bedroom after breakfast.”

Joey finished his cereal with gusto. Since you moved to Gotham, Saturday had become special breakfast day. And while you stuck with your usual toast and coffee, Joey had been eating his way through the supermarket’s sugariest cereals – of which there were many.

It gave him a buzzing energy that lasted until lunchtime, which you knew was probably bad for him, but it made him much more willing to do something productive to spend it. Besides, it was only once a week, and the kid needed something to look forward to. Especially since…last March.

You washed up the dishes while listening to the radio, turned down low to prevent any news of killings or super rats from reaching Joey’s ears. You could hear him thumping around upstairs, stacking his books or filling up his toybox. You knew you should sort out this clown business before he finished and came searching for a boardgame or a match of indoor soccer.

You didn’t work on weekends, though you could have used the money. You gave those days to Joey. You weren’t opposed to babysitters, but a child needed their mother, especially when there was no other family around to help.

Drying your hands, you went in search of the phone book, which you thought you had left beneath the living room coffee table, but knowing Joey, could now be behind the couch or in the washing machine.

You found it in Joey’s library satchel, oddly enough. _That’s a question for later_.

You flipped through. There had to be some kind of agency that hired out party performers. Just for an hour or two. Just to make Joey enjoy his birthday – the first without his father, or his old friends, or even Spot the dog.

A small advertisement caught your attention. There was a picture of a clown face smiling up at you beneath the words _Ha Ha’s._

You cringed, and dialled the number. It rang, and you rearranged Joey’s shoes by the front door with your foot as you waited.

_“Good morning, this is Martin from Ha Ha’s clown agency downtown Gotham, how can I help you?”_

“Uh, hello Martin. My name is (y/n). My son’s eighth birthday party is tomorrow afternoon. I know it’s late notice but –”

_“Not at all! We can certainly have a clown for you. Where is it that you live?”_

You state your address in one of the western suburbs of Gotham City, away from the high-rises of downtown, but not that far that you had a backyard larger than the length of a clothesline.

_“No problem. So are we talking one hour, two?”_

You nod, but then realise you’re on the phone. “Yes, maximum two. It starts at three. It’s going to be small – just some kids from school. I’m not even sure what a clown is supposed to do…”

_“We’ll tell some jokes, dance, hand out prizes, that sort of thing. You can pay in cash. Forty an hour.”_

“Thank you. I – that’s great.”

_“I’ll arrange to have one of our guys out there by three. What’s your number, just in case?”_

You list your number and say goodbye just as Joey bounds downstairs, a box of decorations in his arms.

“So, is the clown coming?” He asks, holding out a packet of balloons for you.

You grin. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

You spend the rest of Saturday decorating the living room with Joey, then Sunday morning you start preparing a cake. Joey was watching a cartoon on the television, and in the kitchen its comical music and sound effects were backgrounded by the radio.

_“…The outbreak of these super rats is having a serious impact on the tourism industry here in Gotham…”_

You shudder. You had spotted one scuttling around the pile of trash outside your work building last week. You had managed not to scream, but the image had stayed with you since.

Joey wandered in and dunked his finger in the batter.

You swatted his hand away. “You can eat it when it’s baked.”

“Can I open my present now?”

“This afternoon,” you reply, and hand him a stack of paper plates. “Why don’t you take these into the living room.”

Joey exits just as the radio speaker mentions the clown murders. You turn it off, not wanting to hear about it when you were going to be hosting a clown in a few short hours.

...

The first kid from Joey’s class arrives at two-thirty, just as you’ve finished dressing.

_Really? Half-an-hour early_, you think as you come down the stairs.

Joey is already at the door, welcoming them in. It’s Katy, with a wrapped gift in her hands, and her mother Barbara, a dish covered in tinfoil in her own.

“Welcome,” you smile, and lead them into the living room.

You chat with Barbara, watching Joey and Katy play, until the next kid arrives, and the next, until there are twelve of them jumping around the living room, eating little sausage rolls and drinking apple juice, opening presents and playing pass-the-parcel. You offer the mothers who have stayed fruit punch, tempted to splash a little alcohol in your own, ultimately deciding against that.

You forget about the clown until the doorbell rings again. It’s three-fifteen.

“Clown!” Joey yells. His friends join in. “Clown, clown, clown!”

Some of the mothers look startled, then uneasy. Mentally kicking yourself for being such an idiot, but knowing there is nothing you can do about it now, you leave the party in the living room and go to answer the door.

It’s still quite shocking, even when you’ve prepared yourself, to see a clown on your doorstep.

You hope your expression is pleasant, but inside you are nervous. “Hello.”

He’s dressed in plaid trousers, a spotted shirt and yellow waistcoat. Not too terrifying. But the make-up and wig are a bit off-putting, you have to admit.

“Hello, I’m here for a birthday party?”

It’s a statement posed as a question. His voice is soft.

You nod. “Yes, Joey’s – my son.”

“Joey,” he repeats. Then ruefully, “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“No problem. We didn’t even notice.” You stare at the blue around his eyes. “My name is (y/n).”

“Arthur, but the kids call me Riddles.”

“Oh, of course. Come inside.”

Arthur steps past you, and he seems to take up a lot of space, but that could just be the large shoes or the green hair, or your narrow hallway. Underneath, you have the feeling he’s…slim.

“Just in the living room,” you gesture lamely in that direction. “Go for it.”

You watch as he seems to gather himself, literally pulling back his shoulders and lifting his chin, before stepping around the corner with a bounce and a hop. You hear him greet Joey, the kids – loud and boisterous.

And you think it was like two different people just entered this house.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur spent an hour playing with the kids. Despite yourself, you found it quite amusing. He danced goofily, he juggled, he told jokes that you hadn’t heard in years.

“Why did the chicken cross the road?”

“To get to the other side!” Joey and his friends cry. They are gathered on the floor – scattered with balloons and wrapping paper – staring up at Riddles the Clown.

Arthur feigns disappointment. “You know that one?”

The kids giggle.

“Okay,” he ponders aloud, tapping a long finger against his painted chin. “Why did the little boy _not_ cross the road?”

Joey and his friends converse for several moments. Even some of the mothers who were listening look at each other, shrugging.

“Why?” Katy asks shyly, sitting next to Joey, her blue eyes wide.

Arthur grins. “Because he saw what happened to the chicken.”

A beat of silence.

You laugh. A loud, unexpected snort.

The children were obviously confused. The mothers were frowning.

“I don’t get it,” Joey says, looking over at you leaning against the kitchen door. The other kids agree.

Arthur immediately looks unsure. He stands awkwardly, clasping his hands in front of him, perhaps worried he’d disappointed Joey.

“That’s okay, baby,” you smile at Joey from your spot across the room. “That was a joke for me.”

Joey shrugs his little shoulders. “Okay. Can we have birthday cake now?”

You nod. “Sure. Let Arth – Riddles tell you one more joke while I bring it out.”

You smile encouragingly at Arthur and leave the room, some of the mothers following you. The kids start laughing again.

In the kitchen, you stick eight mismatched candles in the cake.

“A very, uh…_witty_ clown you’ve hired, (y/n),” Barbara comments to you, sipping from her punch.

You search for the matches in the bottom drawer full of miscellaneous items. “Well, Joey really wanted one. I wasn’t too thrilled.”

“No, I’d think not,” another mother – Karen – says pointedly, gathering fresh serviettes.

You don’t reply. You imagine you’ve just become that irresponsible mom who let a clown attend a children’s party when they were currently associated with murder and rioting.

_Great._

You light the candles and carry the cake into the living room. _Happy Birthday_ is sung, and you take a picture of Joey blowing out the candles, then ask Barbara to take one of you both together. Joey wants one with Riddles as well, and you ask Arthur a bit timidly, but he’s happy to pose with your son.

Once the cake is cut and the kids are face down in their plates, you offer Arthur a piece. He shakes his head and politely refuses. You suppose that only a kid would find the mound of frosting and sprinkles appetizing.

“Do you have any more jokes, Riddles?” Joey asks sloppily around a mouthful of cake.

You’re standing quietly next to Arthur by the hallway door, and now you angle yourself to face him, strangely eager to hear another as well. 

As the kids’ attention returns to him, Arthur straightens and smiles broadly. “Let me see…. I once went to a wedding so moving, even the cake was in tiers.”

Unsurprisingly, none of the kids laugh.

Joey frowns. “Was that another joke for mommy?”

Arthur glances at you sheepishly.

_Was_ it a joke for you? You grin, crouching down to hug Joey. “You remember your spelling words this week, Joey?”

Joey scrunches up his face, thinking.

“What did ‘tiers’ mean?” You press, brushing aside a lock of his curly fringe.

“Like levels…or layers?” Joey mumbles, smearing frosting on your cheek as he nuzzles it.

“Exactly,” you smile, squeezing him. “Do you get the joke now?”

He shakes his head. The other kids do too.

You look up and give Arthur an apologetic smile. “It was funny.”

Arthur pulls a bouquet of faux flowers from his sleeve and kneels, handing them to Joey. “Why did the students eat their homework?”

Joey grins, taking the posy. “Because they didn’t want to do it.”

You laugh, and Arthur chuckles softly. He reaches out and dabs at the frosting on Joey’s chin with a colourful handkerchief.

“Because the teacher said it was a piece of cake.”

All the kids giggle. Even some of the mothers smile.

“Speaking of which,” Barbara says, standing from the couch. “Katy, you need to get home and finish yours.”

Katy groans. Joey does too.

…

After another twenty minutes, and several impediments mostly consisting of Joey’s friends begging Riddles for more jokes, the last kid leaves and you close the door.

_Success_.

When Joey goes to stay with his dad next week, your ex will have a lot of catching up to do. You grin to yourself, picking up a plastic cup from the floor.

You hear Joey talking to Arthur in the living room. When you enter, Joey is showing him his new picture book on the solar system, gifted by Katy. Arthur is hovering awkwardly beside him. You realise you don’t know what Arthur’s real hair colour is – and that you probably never will. There is no moustache or beard to hint, and even his eyebrows are covered in white paint.

_Why are you thinking that?_

“What are you two up to?” You speak up.

Joey looks over at you, and you immediately know what he’s about to ask. “Can Riddles stay, mom?”

“Um…” You look at Arthur.

He opens his mouth, then closes it. He glances between you and Joey, and you can see the conflict in his eyes, torn between needing to leave and not wanting to disappoint Joey. You feel a surge of emotion.

You walk over and ruffle Joey’s hair. “Joey, Riddles has to go. He’s got somewhere to be. Say thank you.”

Joey glumly thanks Arthur. “I liked your jokes, Riddles. They were mostly funny.”

Arthur briefly smiles. “Thank you, Joey. Happy birthday.”

“Go and play with your new toys,” you say. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Joey goes back to his book.

You lead Arthur to the door and fish out your wallet from your handbag hanging on the coat rail.

“Thank you so much for coming, Arthur. Joey really enjoyed your performance.”

“You have a nice son,” Arthur replies. He hesitantly accepts the bills you hold out, like he considered refusing them but remembered this was a job. “I would have stayed longer, but my mother is ill and I need to get home and check on her.”

You nod. “Of course. Go. Thanks again.”

Arthur smiles at you and leaves.

You don’t really know why you do it. But you watch him walk out your gate and down the street toward the subway, and in doing so, you see his shoulders curve inward again, his chin lower, his steps drag. And he suddenly transforms back into the man who first arrived at your door.

You frown to yourself. He could have been having a bad day. He did say his mother was ill. Maybe he was worried, or stressed. Really, it could have been anything.

But you found it both ironic and unsettling, to think of a clown feeling so down. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw meet the inventor of Arthur's second joke...me! One of my great (and slightly disturbing) triumphs of age fifteen i think. Four years ago wow. 
> 
> hope you enjoyed :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go: a nice long one to make up for the nice long wait between chapters (oops, sorry darls - university assignments called!). Enjoy, and comment with your feedback :)

Joey spends the week with his dad.

You don’t have the best relationship with your ex, but when Joey is involved you make it work. You take turns with the transportation, and this month it was his turn to drive out from the suburbs and pick Joey up.

That was Saturday morning, so you decided to work the weekend for extra cash. Sitting in your empty house seemed counterproductive.

Now, it’s Tuesday night, and downtown Gotham is noisy. You walk down unfamiliar streets crowded with people and lined with trash, arm-in-arm with your work friend, Hannah. You shrink together against the mid-autumn breeze, heading towards Pogo’s comedy club.

You had been shutting down your desktop at work when Hannah had poked her head around the cubicle and asked if you wanted to go out. You had only been to a comedy show once before – during college, at the campus bar. It had actually started as a poetry reading, but some guy had gotten up and started telling jokes. They had been funny, mostly because the poetry had sucked.

But Pogo’s was a proper stand-up comedy club, Hannah had persuaded you. With proper comedians. You had agreed. Why not? Joey was at his dad’s, and all that was waiting for you at home were leftovers and some old television movie.

Now, you sit with Hannah at a small round table towards the back of the dimly lit room, nursing your favourite cocktail, playing an idle game of _noughts and crosses_ on a serviette as you ignore the mediocre act on stage.

The first two had been okay. Lots of crude jokes of the sexual variety, but the drink Hannah had bought you had helped them digest easier.

You scratch an _x_ on the serviette and grin. “I win.”

Hannah scoffs, rolling her blue eyes. “Okay, miss-easily-distracted. Watch the show.”

You sip your drink. The act ends and you clap with everyone else, but you honestly wouldn’t have been able to repeat anything they had said to save your life.

It was kind of boring.

You signal at the bartender for another round. He’s tall and tattooed, and not your usual type, but the smile he sends you is charming, and his eyes linger on you longer than most would.

The emcee announces the next act and a man comes on stage to applause, dressed in suit pants and a vest. He’s holding a tattered notebook. There is a moment’s pause as he blinks beneath the bright lights. Then, after a stuttered “hello”, he starts to laugh – sharp crows that erupt from deep within his chest, leaving him gasping for breath. He waves his arm, then curls it around his neck, muffling his face in the crook of his elbow.

Everyone sits in silence, staring at him. You shift awkwardly and swap glances with Hannah.

Was he overexcited?

He tries to get out some words, and you think he’s saying something about his mother, but you’re not sure. Eventually, he calms down. You’re too far away from the stage to make out details, but you can tell he’s embarrassed.

In that moment, something about him becomes familiar to you. Then he starts to speak properly, and you immediately know who it is.

“Holy shit,” you breathe.

Hannah turns her head to you, whispering, “What is it?”

It’s him. You’re sure. The curve of his shoulders, the low pitch of his voice.

“That’s…that’s the clown I hired for Joey’s birthday. His name is Arthur.”

Hannah looks between Arthur and you. “You know him?”

“Yeah.”

“Er, wow. Coincidence Tuesday,” Hannah laughs.

You smile distractedly, still watching Arthur.

You listen to his whole act, and to your surprise, his jokes are not very good this evening. Neither is his stage presence, and you wonder why. Riddles the Clown was perfectly funny. You reason with yourself, thinking that maybe kids are an easier audience, or that a face of makeup can act like a mask, turning you into a different person. But why had he laughed so strangely?

You barely remember that you had been appreciating the bartender earlier on when he arrives with your drinks, and you leave Hannah to mutter your thank you. You drink it absently, your attention fully focused on Arthur.

After the show is over, you fumble for your things and turn to Hannah. “Hey, I’m going to go and say hello to Arthur.”

Hannah blinks at you. “Oh, okay. Do you want me to wait?”

You open your mouth. “Only if you – actually, no, it’s fine. You go home.”

“Are you sure?” She looks uncertain.

You nod. “Yeah. Thanks for inviting me. It was fun.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then” Hannah says, kissing your cheek. She disappears into the crowd of people exiting the club.

You look around for Arthur and just catch him walking out the door. You hurry after him.

It’s late now, and outside it’s even colder. Even noisier. Turning in your spot, you spy Arthur trekking down the sidewalk towards the subway, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Arthur!” You yell after him.

You see him halt and start towards him. He turns around and notices you approaching. He frowns slightly, and his head tilts. You suddenly hope you’ve got the right person, and that this is in fact Arthur. But by the time you’re in front of him, you can see that he recognises you.

“Oh, hello,” Arthur says, obviously surprised.

You hold out your hand. “It’s (y/n), Joey’s mom. You performed for his birthday last week.”

“I remember,” Arthur takes your hand, shaking it gently. “I wouldn’t have thought you would recognise me. Was my face paint that bad?”

You laugh. “No, of course not. I actually just saw your performance. At Pogo’s.”

The small smile that was on Arthur’s face falters. “You…saw that?”

You nod. “I was with a friend from work.”

“Really? W-what did you think?” There was almost a reluctance to the question, like he couldn’t help asking even though he didn’t want to. You could tell he was worried you’d seen his fit of laughter.

You don’t mention it, instead saying, “It was good. A bit of fresh air after all those jokes about prostitutes and blow-jobs.”

Arthur seems to relax, but he smiles awkwardly. You step out of the way of an oncoming couple, and Arthur moves to stand with you by a newsstand.

“Where’s Joey?” Arthur asks you, breaking the silence.

“With his dad.” You notice him briefly glance at your hand gripping your bag. You grin. “I’m divorced.”

Arthur blushes. “Sorry, I wasn’t –”

“That’s okay,” you brush him off.

You can feel the awkwardness radiating off him, and as he glances around at various nothings, you finally notice his hair. It’s long, for a man. And curly. And it’s the exact same colour as his eyebrows. A shade of brown that has a particular lack of flattering descriptive words, but that is still attractive all the same.

_Why are you thinking that?_

You shake your head at yourself.

Arthur is looking at you again, and you’re asking before you even realise. “Hey, if you’re not doing anything, did you want to eat with me? I haven’t had dinner.”

Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. He blinks and opens his mouth, but no words come out. It’s like he’s never been asked out before.

_Not that you’re asking him out._

“It’s totally fine if you don’t want to,” you add.

Arthur finally seems to register the question. “No, I’ll eat with you.”

You grin. “Great. Um, I don’t actually know this part of town very well. Any suggestions?”

Arthur looks around, as though he’ll spot an option across the street. “Do you drink coffee?”

You nod. Arthur starts to walk, and you fall in line with him. You head past the entrance to the subway, continuing on down the street.

“So, do you often perform at comedy clubs?” You ask in the quiet between you.

Arthur shakes his head. “No. I’m new to stand-up. I’ve been mostly working on my material.”

“Well, at least you’ve got the talent,” you tell him, nudging his arm gently with your elbow. “Your jokes are good.”

He looks over at you with wide eyes. “You think so?”

You nod. “Of course. That one about the boy and the chicken at Joey’s party – funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Arthur genuinely smiles at you, and your heart skips a few beats. Certainly more than when the bartender had smiled at you.

You walk on for a minute, leaving the busy main road behind for a quieter street. It’s lined with trash, and you have to breathe through your mouth.

“Do you know any jokes?” Arthur asks you, with just a hint of playfulness, as you pass beneath a flickering lamppost.

You think. Not really – but you had read one in the newspaper on Sunday morning that was quite good. You clear your throat, Arthur watching you intently.

“I got pulled over by the cops the other day: ‘_Your eyes look red_,’ said the cop. ‘_Have you been smoking weed?_’ ‘_Your eyes look glazed_," I replied. "_Have you been eating donuts?_’”

You giggle when you finish, and you see that Arthur is grinning.

“That’s good,” he says.

“And appropriate.”

You stop together outside a diner and you see a neon sign in the window that reads _donuts_. You laugh. Inside, the air smells sweet, and you’re surprised not more people are in here escaping the rotten smell outside. You take a seat at a window booth and Arthur slides in across from you.

A waitress brings you coffee and small donuts that taste like cinnamon. So much for joining you for dinner, you think, when you notice Arthur doesn’t eat any. He smokes instead, and when he offers you a cigarette when you’re finished, you take one.

“Do you live downtown?” You ask Arthur.

He shakes is head. “Lower Gotham.”

You breathe out smoke. “With your mother?”

Arthur nods. “She needs a carer, and I’m the best person for the job.”

“That’s nice to hear,” you say.

Arthur sips at the coffee, but doesn’t seem to care for it. “Does your…Joey’s dad, live in Gotham?”

You shake your head. “No. Across the bridge, out in the suburbs.”

“Does he often stay with him?”

You tap some ash into your empty mug. “Once a month, for five days.”

“Must be nice, to have the house to yourself?” Arthur asks.

“Well, it’s definitely quieter.”

He is smiling at you, staring at you, and you feel yourself blushing.

The waitress returns and begins to clear your plates. “More coffee?”

You look to Arthur for an answer, but you see that his eyes have suddenly widened in horror.

Your stomach turns.

His hands come up to clutch his throat, and then the same fit of laughter from earlier returns. It’s even louder in the empty diner, and you sit in an uncomfortable silence as Arthur cries out and gasps.

The waitress backs away and leaves you with him, and you’re not sure what to do yourself.

“Arthur…?”

He shakes his head furiously, tears streaming down his cheeks, and reaches into his pocket. He tugs out a small laminated card and passes it to you, still crowing.

You look down.

_Sorry for my laughter. I have_ _ a condition._

Your heart instantly breaks. “O-of course, Arthur, I understand.”

You wait for it to pass, trying not to cry yourself, and while it’s still painful to witness, you just read the back of Arthur’s card and finish your cigarette, smiling reassuringly whenever he meets your eye. Eventually, it fades.

Arthur is silent.

He looks down at his hands splayed on the table, and you can feel his mortification. Seeing he’s obviously not okay, you skip that question and ask, “Does it hurt when it happens?”

Arthur looks up at you. His cheeks are damp.

“Yes,” he says hoarsely. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head and reach over to brush his hand. “Please don’t apologise. It’s no problem to me.”

He doesn’t reply. You pass his card back to him, and he grips it tightly.

You can sense the evening coming to an end, so you smile at him. “Arthur, would you like to meet again? Go to a comedy show, or something else?”

He meets your eye. “Would you want to?”

“Of course. I’ve had a great evening.”

Arthur nods slowly. “Okay. Whatever you want to do.”

You smile, and he smiles back.

…

The temperature has dropped even lower outside, and you quickly walk to the subway station together. You part ways, settling on a time and place to meet again.

You watch his train arrive first, and as it leaves you think about this new development. Arthur had suffered from some form of brain trauma, which now causes him to break out in sporadic fits of laughter. It was sad, most certainly – its origin absolutely deplorable – but the laughter didn’t bother you at all. You actually found it heart-warming that a man who had been subjected to laugher by such terrible means; who was its slave, most likely, during times when it wasn’t considered acceptable and instead caused problems...still wanted to make others laugh as well.


End file.
